


The Closest Thing to Rain

by Argyle



Category: Brideshead Revisited - Evelyn Waugh
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-06-14
Updated: 2004-06-14
Packaged: 2018-01-09 16:14:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1148052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Argyle/pseuds/Argyle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two third-class tickets to Venice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Closest Thing to Rain

Clouds passed, clinging to the boughs of trees and bound by vines and silk ribbons as the train rolled on. Our carriage was a wash of colors, green and red, blue and yellow, impossibly wrought by the quiet murmurs of passengers. The air was hung with the scent of dust and spices, filling my senses as I opened my mouth to speak. “We’ve nearly arrived, I should think.”

Sebastian shifted against the hard, wooden planks of the bench beside me, stretching his legs before him and crossing his ankles. He nodded drowsily, clearing his throat quietly before he spoke, “That’s alright.” His summer suit seemed to glow in the fractured light, mirroring the energy of earlier hours in its white folds. He glanced to me from the shadow that poured across his face by the brim of his hat, blue eyes glazed by wine and fitful sleep, presently glinting with barely-masked delight as the scenery came to a halt and we lurched to a stop.

Stepping from the train and onto the platform, hands carefully tucked into pockets, my sight was greeted by the golden glow of the Italian evening. Couples on holiday, touring businessmen, and locals clad in white linen stood before the vendors as great, fantastical insects in amber, limbs still in the warmth and the damp pull of the waters. Wooden carts held silver and begonias, filling the air with the musk of our fortunes.

“Darling Charles, don’t look so serious.” Sebastian smiled, his lips gently parting. “Really now, there’s no need to worry, not to say that there was a reason for such a thing in the first place. Now that we’ve arrived, though, everything will be taken care of,” he said, his voice at once melodic and mockingly dramatic. “Was the journey here really so tiring for you?”

I shook my head, breathing deeply. “No.”

Sebastian stood by my side as I first saw Venice, his arm twined around my waist, lightly guiding me toward the gondola. I was not disappointed.

I had always dreamed of the city, its wistful palazzos crumbling into the mud as birds and rats danced amidst the cobbles. There was an enchantment borne upon the air, seeping into my blood and grazing across my tongue, tugging at my cuffs and drawing me away from the hazy reflections of my past.

As I laughed into the sunshine that fell across my face, I was for the moment able to ignore the despair that pulsed through the maze of canals. The memory of political glories had been swept by the tide of centuries, married to the sea, and merged with the song of pigment and bone. The living seemed outnumbered by ghosts, though seeing the light that hung within Sebastian’s eyes brought me closer to life than I had ever been. His lips brushed across my own as we settled against the silk cushions, a moment that flew from the present as rain that evaporates before it reaches the ground. The night unfolded around us, laced by the oils of the water and the darkened beating of wings.


End file.
